


Not A Therapist

by Control_Room, Random_ag



Series: The W-lly Franks Twins [32]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine, The Man With Eyes - Fandom
Genre: Happy Ending, Slice of Life, a modern au bit, bad therapists, good parenting, oh? someone might have a crush?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:54:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24512662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Control_Room/pseuds/Control_Room, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_ag/pseuds/Random_ag
Summary: Eska was stuck in the wall.
Relationships: Eska & Willy Franks, Kim Grosso/Niamh O'Flannel
Series: The W-lly Franks Twins [32]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1016235
Comments: 11
Kudos: 7





	Not A Therapist

Eska was stuck in the corner.

Correction: Eska was  _ in the process of getting _ stuck in the corner by his own volition by crumpling into a sphere of bones and rolling into the walls much like a Bethesda character desperately trying to break out of the game's bounds.

Willy was coaxing the man out, worried, the protagonist trying to stop the NPC from destroying the universe. His arms were open and he kept talking to him, softly, asking questions that he doubted would be answered. The most he could manage to get were whimpers and whines as his friend attempted to clip through reality.

Niamh had eventually come in, and watched, bewildered. 

“What’s goin’ on?” she questioned. 

Eska briefly interrupted his rolling to give a discouraged growl as a response, his head tucked under his legs in a way that was not humanly possible without breaking one's neck.

“He just got back from an appointment, I don’t think it went well,” Willy replied for him. His concern beamed through his eyes. “I’m worried.”

The manager furrowed her brows. She crouched a little closer: “What's wrong, thaische?” she asked, “Somethin’ happened while ye were at therapy?”

“Hmm.”

“Maybe they assigned him a shit therapist?” Willy proffered, brows furrowing. 

“There's shite therapists?”

“Yes?”

“Why?”

Willy blinked twice. “What do you mean, ‘why’?”

“Why would ye hire someone who's shite at treatin’ people specifically t’ treat people?”

“Sometimes they don’t realize until it’s called out,” Willy shrugged. “Some people go to therapists, don’t like it, but continue because they think that’s the way it is.”

“ ‘s that it, love? The therapist?”

Eska gave a nod - as best as he could from his current position.

“Maybe someone should go and check it out if it’s the therapist or the therapy itself,” Willy suggested.

“What should someone check with the therapist and therapy?” a voice intruded the conversation as Kim approached the trio with increasing worry for his boy as he got a closer look at him.

“Seems like Eska doesn’t like it much,” Willy admitted, then glanced at his friend, squatting to look over at him. “Or at all.”

The toy maker looked at Eska - not so much for a confirmation of what the janitor had said, but to attempt to understand how to unstuck the feline figure. He gently put his hand on the factotum's leg before he had the chance to get back to rolling into the wall in the hopes of being assimilated by it. He exchanged a look with his wife, and in her eyes he read an agreement: both of them knew that diplomacy was not her forte outside of business.

“I will talk to her.” he assured him.

Eska murped thankfully, eventually crawling over Willy, the lavender man sighing with a smile and patting his best friend’s head.

***

Her office felt strangely off.

There was no actual discernible reason as to why it felt like that. Something about it just put Kim on edge. Which, he considered, was not a particularly good starting point. It was more a heightened sense thing, so he attempted to calm down. Maybe he was nervous because of the way Eska had reacted. The therapist and he just might not have been a good match. That could be a very reasonable cause for his jitters. 

Of course, it was unusual for a therapist to come in after the client, but Kim knew that people often were busy, and maybe it was unusual for the therapist as well. 

However, she made no move to apologize, only smiling far too brightly, not enough empathy within those grinning teeth. Kim shifted, rather uncomfortable, but still willing to give the benefit of the doubt.

“You’ve already had him sign the release papers so I can tell you his information, I’m sure,” the therapist, Kim remembered her name was Ms. Percy, remarked, no questioning tone. “So we can get right to the point.”

Oh no. No no no. This was wrong, Kim’s nerves screamed at him. Getting to the point was fine, but so quickly, and without any easing into it - it was kind of jarring. It was not just Eska who found this therapist bad. Oh dear, what other poor souls did this woman torment? Still, it had only been three minutes, maybe less, as time seemed to drag for Kim the longer he stayed in the room. He tried to smile back, hoping that the sinking feeling he was getting was not going to stick with him the whole time.

He forced himself to breathe in: he should not make such brash judgements.

“He is too in his head.”

_ WOW _ , lady, way to  _ crush _ a man's hopes and attempts at being understanding.

“I find him too detached from reality.” Ms. Percy continued, unbothered and apparently unaware of the slight but very visible widening of Kim's eyes, “It's like he still believes himself to be a child, with his childish interests and whatnot. Sometimes we will be in the middle of a consulting session and he will suddenly become very scared and curl into a ball on the chair, claiming there are things that aren't there and asking that I hold his hand.”

Yes. That was… that was because he was psychotic. Because he suffered from psychosis. Which is, literally, described as a detachment from reality. That is why he had hallucinations. That is why he needed a physical presence he could grab onto as a reminder of reality. He had been  _ diagnosed _ with psychosis, when he had been stuck in the psych ward at the hospital because of something nobody enjoyed reminding themselves of, least of all Eska himself.

Kim felt his head spin.

“Counseling sessions?” he asked, opting to question the one thing that did not immediately make him want to slap the woman across the face with the chair he was sitting on.

“Oh, right, see, I know people come for therapy but I wouldn't really consider myself a therapist? I'm more of a consultant, mostly for the parents.”

A therapist who is not a therapist.

This meeting was getting worse by the minute.

“Which reminds me -” and she leaned down to take a piece of paper from one of the drawers of her desk, “I thought of giving this to him so he could give it to you, but maybe it's safer this way. It's a list of medications that I think would work well with his lack of attention, memory and general immaturity.”

General immaturity?

“He is already taking medication and it’s been helping him a lot….”

“Well, if he keeps having visions it's clearly not enough, then.”

_ (Listen here you crusty bitch my son does not need additional medicine unrelated to his mental illness just because you think it's fucked up for him to harmlessly like things and because you did not fucking read that he has psychosis) _

So the answer was to take six more psychodrugs. Sure. Not unhealthy-sounding in the slightest.

He got to the end of the list and frowned, puzzled. Ms. Percy raised her eyebrows curiously at this change of expression: “Is something wrong?” she inquired.

Kim hummed. He pointed at the end of the list: “What does ‘testosterone’ have to do with my son's hallucinations?”

“Maybe not with hallucinations, but I believe the lack of a proper quantity of testosterone in his system is causing him problems with his mental health as a whole. Being born without genitalia probably had side-effects on his psyche.”

“Excuse me, what.”

“I mean, you are his father, right? So you know-”

“Yes I  _ do _ know that I know  _ that _ .” Kim interrupted her with eyes like ice pinpricks, sharp and digging, “I am wondering how  _ you _ know that, since that information was not written anywhere for you to read.”

“He told me.”

“He… told you.”

“Yes. Naturally.”

“That’s private information,” Kim pointed out, feeling very foolish to have to do so to a so-called professional. “He would not have brought it up. He wouldn’t answer something like that. It’s not how he is.”

Her lips pursed for a second or two.

“It was very important for me to know.”

“Why?”

“Well, he had mentioned he wasn't attracted to anyone, so something must have been wrong on a physical level.”

Kim left as soon as he heard that. 

This woman was never seeing his son again, but Eska still needed help.

Luckily, Kim knew someone who had a lot of connections.

***

Jo made a motion for Kim to come in as he saw him peeking through the door, his smile dazzling as ever: “Need help?”

“Uh…” the toy maker began, brain short circuiting briefly for no apparent reason (Jo had smiled, which was not  _ that  _ uncommon, so it could not have been that. Probably he was just trying to figure out how to phrase his words. Probably.). He shook his head for a fraction of a second: “Do you know a therapist Eska can go to?” he asked sheepishly, worried about bothering the good soul that was his boss. “I can't tell Niamh about his last one or she would be charged for first degree murder within the next five minutes.”

“Oh, dear.” Jo grimaced, frowning and brow furrowing, opening a drawer where he kept his contact information. “That bad?”

Kim groaned affirmatively.

“Here’s a list of therapists I know that specialize w-with psychosis,” Johan replied, handing him some papers. “If you need any help to go through them, f-feel free to ask.”

“Thank you so much.” Kim thanked him, freezing a bit when their hands brushed, yet he shrugged it off. “But don't worry, I don't think any of these could be worse than what I had to hear.”

***

Eska was patting his skeletal thighs like he was the drummer of a heavy metal band performing live in a small semi abandoned gay bar precariously perched on the very edge of reality and tomorrow was not a thing.

Anyone who did not know him would have thought this was a bad thing, but not Willy. Willy, smiling, approached his friend, sitting next to him. 

“How did it go?” he asked, gently, reaching for his hand. The grotesque, impossibly thin fingers intertwined with his own, and a wooden feeling brushed his scalp as Eska rubbed his face against his slowly ashening curls.

“Good.” he gargled merrily, “Good, good, good.”

“Good,” Willy echoed, smiling. “I’m happy, especially for you.”

The gentle chainsaw-like purring made him smile even more, a smile under a mask.


End file.
